


Gall

by RonnaWren (orphan_account)



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: M/M, Objectification, Trump is his own warning, Verges on surreal, Victim Blaming, sexual fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 23:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14319276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/RonnaWren
Summary: He wanted what he could never have, but now even his fantasies betray him.





	Gall

**Author's Note:**

> This has been festering on my hard drive for, like, months. I'm sick of it.

The only thing Trump remembered from the intelligence briefing on Russia and shit (briefings were as boring as the boring old horses they rode in on, losers) two weeks before his Inauguration was Comey. Sure, people kept telling him intelligence briefings were a big deal ("Pence pays attention during his," some whiny SOB muttered under his breath), but they couldn't possibly understand how dreadfully boring briefings could be. (They became more interesting when lots of maps and pictures were added. And also when the idiots briefing him brought all events back to him, because he was so central to the world's events.)

Anyway, Comey made that particular briefing more than worthwhile. He kept bringing everything back around to him and hearing him talk about the election was really fantastic. (His imposing height and unassuming expression and the blue he wore that enhanced his attractiveness didn't hurt either.) Fuck, Comey helped him become President... Yeah, working with Comey would be the best.

"I look forward to working with you," Trump whispered, his lips brushing Comey's ear and causing him to shiver and stiffen. Oh, yes, Trump thought. And Comey's scent, so heady... Hell, he looked forward to working with him because, oh god, he wanted him.

Wanted all of him... every part of him he could possibly have...

(And he wasn't in the habit of denying himself anything if he could help it.)

_His lips move from Jim's ear, over his cheek. He leaves a kiss at the corner of his mouth. All the while, Jim stands still, cold and immovable, waiting._

"Hello?" Trump could hear Comey's breaths crackling through the phone, easy and relaxed.

"Hi, Jim. This is President Donald Trump. How are you today?" The phone slipped a little in his sweaty grip.

Comey's breathing stopped, then started again, faster and shallower. "Just fine, Mr. President," he replied crisply. "What can I do for you?"

"I want you to have dinner with me on Friday night," Trump said. "Here. At the White House."

"Yes, sir," Comey replied, his voice unchanged. "I'll be there."

"Good," Trump said, smirking triumphantly to himself. The invitation had been extended. He and Comey, alone at a table for two in the Green Room. Oh, he couldn't wait!

_He does not kiss him again just yet, merely holding Jim's stiff form close and running his hands up and down his broad back._

Comey strode into the room, looking around in sudden confusion. What's wrong? Trump almost asked. Why do you look like that?

Instead of feeling actual concern, Comey's clear discomfort drew him like a mosquito to a fucking huge vein. Every fidget, every attempt to make himself appear, in one moment small, in the next intimidating, failed to diminish the wild desire—aching, throbbing, and oh fuck, he was so hard—Trump felt.

"I want loyalty. I need loyalty," he murmured, watching hungrily—as hungry for the man as he was for the food—as Comey took a small bite and set his fork down with a faint clink. 

"Mr. President?" Comey's baritone was brittle.

"I require loyalty from people who work for me. Will you swear loyalty to me?" (Please, Jim? Come on, come on! he thought wildly.)

"I can give you honesty," Comey said, eyes boring into Trump's with an intensity that took his breath away. (Hell if he wanted it back.)

"Honest loyalty, then," Trump concluded, smiling, his heart thudding in excitement. Comey raised an eyebrow but did not protest. "Well," Trump continued, "nice talking with you."

"Likewise, Mr. President," Comey said, rising to shake Trump's hand in farewell. Comey's hand dwarfed his, and he wished he could curl up against him, let himself be held close, and adored in a way none of the women he'd slept with could. In short, he wished to be the little spoon for once in his life, to feel Comey warm against his back, with his arm thrown over his chest.

(And for this he would rage at his darling little wife. She would take it in stride, then hip-hop right back to New York)

Comey left most of his food uneaten. Trump did not pause to wonder why. Jim was his!

_Trump lifts his hands to Jim's shoulders and pushes him down. Jim does not resist the manhandling, allowing himself to be pushed first into a crouch, and then onto his back. Trump leans over him, admiring him closely, tracing the line of Jim's jaw with a gentle finger._

"All right, everybody out!" Trump announced. "Jim, could you stay for a bit?" Comey glanced pleadingly over at Jeff, who stood next to his chair, but made no move to help him. Meanwhile, Reince and Mike and Steve and John and the other Mike moved further into the room, not appearing remotely eager to leave.

"Oh, come on, guys. I need to talk to Jim for a moment. That's right, Jared," Trump added, noticing Jared bending down to whisper something into Comey's ear. "Even you, okay." Comey's eyes closed, and he massaged his forehead. The others looked anxious and confused, but they exited the room, leaving Trump and Comey alone. Finally! Jesus fucking Christ!

"So, I want to talk about Mike Flynn. He's a good guy and all, and this whole thing has been hard on him."

Comey's mouth compressed into a line. God, he wanted to kiss it, make him loosen up a bit—well, maybe a lot.

"Indeed, Mr. President."

"Also, leaks. People gotta stop that. It's bad for the country and bad for security." And they make me look like shit, he added silently.

"I agree with you," Comey said, nodding. He did not smile.

The door to the office opened, and Reince peaked in, several of the people that had vacated the room trying to peer around him. "Give me a few minutes, Reince, okay?" The door closed again; Comey's head drooped. The grandfather clock ticked.

"But seriously, though, Flynn's a good guy. Could you see to letting this go, letting Flynn go?"

Tick.

"He is a good guy," Comey murmured. All right! Flynn would be fine!

Tock.

_"You're so fucking hot, you know," Trump says admiringly. "Like, I don't know, some piece of art or other."_

_"Your approval is gratifying," Jim says, relaxing marginally._

But getting Flynn off the hook wasn't as smooth as he expected. Because a few weeks later, Comey was spouting lies in front of the Senate from his traitorous, delectable mouth and refusing to defend anything Trump Tweeted and generally just being mean. He couldn't make himself call him for another week.

"People think I'm under investigation," Trump snapped, when he finally scraped together the requisite nerve.

"I can't do anything about what the public thinks," Comey replied. His voice was as arousing as ever. Shit, how he wished it weren't. ... It was all Comey's fault for making him feel this way.

"But you could publicly say I'm not under investigation... lift the cloud..." And get the hell out of his head, or better yet, onto his dick. 

"You aren't under criminal investigation." The way Comey said it sounded far from reassuring. But still, the words were nice to hear.

"You could say that publicly. Say it publicly!" Or get on your knees, so I can fuck your mouth so hard you choke on it like a dog or a virgin bitch... except that wasn't quite what he wanted. Though at this vengeful thought, he felt himself harden painfully.

"Good day, Mr. President," Comey said. The line went dead.

_Trump tears open the top few buttons of Jim's shirt and leaves a trail of bites from his throat to his chest. His skin tastes faintly salty and warm and like the spicy scent of his aftershave._

He, Donald J. Trump, didn't give up. He never settled, never gave an inch to anybody. So, he waited a couple weeks and called Comey again.

"Tell them I'm not under investigation. I mean, we had that thing, remember?" Honest loyalty, the greatest loyalty in the history of loyalty, right?

"I'm sorry, Mr. President. I can't speak publicly about an ongoing investigation; therefore, I cannot say anything about you. And no," he continued, forestalling Trump's interruption, "you are not under criminal investigation at this time."

But you said something about Hillary! "Okay," he replied, sullen and defeated, wanting Comey to hear every emotion—all  
the pain he was causing.

_He settles himself fully on top of him, enjoying the power, enjoying the feel of Jim beneath him. "What do you want?" he whispers._

_"For you to fuck me, Mr. President," Jim replies._

_Even in this fantasy, Trump knows he's not being completely truthful. Yeah, he would kind of prefer Jim on top, too._

"I want to fire him," Trump lamented. "I want him gone! He's been mean. Motherfucker!"

Reince's hand pressed against his shoulder. Trump wanted to push him away in disgust. Reince failed him, too (Ryan-ce!). Everyone did. Disloyal, all of them. Couldn't fucking follow through. Never fucking believed in him.

Reince wanted him, kinda—when he stopped mooning over Ryan long enough. God, he hated that look. "Oh yeah, Mr. President. You can't trust him. Can I kiss you?"

Disloyal or not, lying through his teeth or not, Reince knew how to toady better than just about anyone. "Ugh, go for it, Reince. You're a bitch, but at least you're my bitch." Maybe.

"I want to fire Comey," Trump said to Jared.

"Uh, you should definitely do that," Jared replied briefly. And he meant it, too. Trump could tell.

"Good boy," Trump praised, missing Jared's miniscule, annoyed frown.

"I want to fire Comey," Trump muttered to Rosenstein. He would have preferred to talk to Jeff, but Rosenstein hadn't recused himself from the Russia bullshit like that spineless fucker...

"Why?" Rosenstein asked dubiously.

"I just do. Come up with a convincing reason. I'm sure there are plenty. Like, I don't know, say something about Hillary." Oh, he was good. Like, the best.

Rosenstein pursed his lips but nodded. "When will you make the announcement?" he asked, resigned.

"Tomorrow," Trump said, deciding only at that moment. Why wait?

_He thrusts forward, draped over Jim like a... like something that drapes, probably. Fuck if he has time for metaphors in his gay sex fantasies._

_"You're gonna be fired tomorrow, Jim," he says._

_"Is that so?" Jim pushes him off without effort, crawls atop him._

_God, yes._

_"Then I have nothing to say," Jim says. "You are your own worst enemy, Mr. President." He kisses him with tongue and teeth, and he takes it, wants it, needs it..._

_Jim stands, suddenly fully-dressed. "Don't go!" This is his fantasy. (This is a fantasy, right?) Jim isn't supposed to leave!_

"I would have gladly stayed. I would do my duty for the American people."

"Yeah, I know." American people? Losers! Everyone was such a fucking loser, and a traitor.

Trump rubbed his eyes. Comey was gone. He deserved it.

No, wait...

_Jim isn't here..._

He regretted, _he doesn't regret_.

Everything would be just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Ick...


End file.
